


the Messiah Complex

by leo_minor



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: A Link Between Worlds
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Commission work, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Other, Religious Fanaticism, Selectively Mute Link (Legend of Zelda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor
Summary: 'I have a duty to fulfil' is what he thinks because it’s the reason he breathes, bleeds and aches, cries and laughs but doesn’t speak, never, not once. It’s the reason he has a mind to think it and a body to bear it. It’s, he’s been told, the reason he’s alive.'I have a duty to fulfil' is what he thinks every day and every night because it’s what he is, a part of him as much as his heartbeat and breathing and tremors and aches. He never stops thinking it because it’s his fuel. He can’t stop thinking it because he has nothing else to think about it.And so he believes.
Relationships: Link & Ravio (Legend of Zelda), Link/Ravio (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	the Messiah Complex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InfiniteSeahorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteSeahorse/gifts).



> Playing the loz games I found myself thinking a lot about how Link goes about accepting his role as the hero without a second's thought, occasionally unwisely. I've already written at length about him rejecting it (and finding himself forced to undertake the task anyway), so it's about time I wrote about him embracing it entirely, maybe a little too much.  
> This work is a commission for InfiniteSeahorse, who let me bend and twist it all over the place while it was in the works. Thank you for commissioning me, and for your trust !  
> Finally, I hope you enjoy this, and have a good read !

_I have a duty to fulfil_

is what he thinks because it’s the reason he breathes, bleeds and aches, cries and laughs but doesn’t speak, never, not once. It’s the reason he has a mind to think it and a body to bear it. It’s, he’s been told, the reason he’s alive.

_I have a duty to fulfil_

is what he thinks every time his blade draws blood. Gloves don’t absorb the whole tremor of the cut, an ugly shiver than runs up the sword and always, inevitably, reaches his elbow. At the beginning his arm jerked, trying to free itself of the feeling of death at his hand. Natural preservation, he figures. He’s used to it now and stays steady until the creature sighs no more. There was the matter of disgust, which he’s still getting over. Disgust at himself, that is. Not the remains – never the remains. He’s never felt the slightest anger towards those who throw themselves at him, for after all, aren’t they following the same orders as he is ? They have a duty of their own. Not all of them have eyes to look into _(or away from)_ at the end, but those who do rarely look hateful. There’s a general understanding that certain things have to be done.

_I have a duty to fulfil_

is what he thinks every time conscience comes back at him, charging from the back of his mind like a desperate soldier. Last man standing in a _(terrible)_ calm place where everything has been rationalised, justified, and put into small boxes for safekeeping. Even conscience has been filed away, very far, very deeply buried, but it tends to shake itself free. It’s bothered with the fundamental unbalance, wrong versus right – the mathematical theorem of black and white. It no longer computes all the factors, and least of all : him. But he bypasses such things as philosophy and thought, because he’s been given the divine right. He _is_ the divine down here, where they no longer venture, just pull a few strings. Morals don’t come into it. Only belief. And he’s the one generations have believed in.

_I have a duty to fulfil_

is what he thinks every day and every night because it’s what he is, a part of him as much as his heartbeat and breathing and tremors and aches. He never stops thinking it because it’s his fuel. He can’t stop thinking it because he has nothing else to think about it.

_I have a duty to fulfil_

is what he tells himself because without the commandment his life might reveal itself to be ( _ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly)_ an ugly thing indeed.

And so, he believes.

It isn’t an easy job by any means, and having the Goddesses on his side only makes it slightly easier. Sometimes they whisper sweet nothings in his ear when he feels himself falter, and sometimes they heal him when a cut has gone too deep, and too much of him has been lost. Those are the times he cherishes most, but most days they are silent. Cold as stone. As they should be, for he serves them, and not the other way around. He has a _(duty to fulfil_ ) heavy burden to carry.

Carry it he does, without question. No bruise nor bleed can stop him. He’s removed himself so fully from the humanity that birthed him that he can hardly feel the extent of the damage at the end of the day, fully convinced that he’s something more. Isn’t he ? The men in the tapestries never complain about the aches and scratches – they’re too busy existing outside the realm of time and space, as concepts, as Gods. He is Peace on Earth, and Peace on Earth can hardly be wounded. When he comes back home with pieces of him missing, he doesn’t feel horror, because it’s all inconsequential to someone like him. The one who always cries is the boy living in his house.

Not that he ever sees the tears, hidden under that long hood of his. But he hears them alright. On the doorstep when he comes back and knocks, dripping rain and mud all over their floor, and on the tiny wooden stool from which his guest tends to his wounds, every evening, without fail. He’s never asked for it – for what is the need ? – but the boy’s taken to the task and unshakable. The cuts always make him shiver. Under the hood, he probably looks uncomfortable.

And he tells Ravio it’s his duty, the one he has to fulfil, the one he was born to bear. He tells him factually, it’s the reason for his existence. His existence ! He is in this world solely to carry it out, and without it would have no justification to his life at all. And Ravio always looks deeply unsettled, and his head bends forward, and sometimes _(sometimes)_ he goes fully silent. And eventually he resumes his bandaging with careful, circular movements around Link’s wrist and occasionally he says :

“That’s no reason to be so mindless, is it, isn’t it a strong one to be careful ? There’s more to you than your soul, isn’t there, and you’d take care of that, so take care of the rest too or there’ll be nothing left of you to carry on fighting. Duty, that’s one thing, but there are many ways to perform it, and the one you choose, the path you take, that depends on what’s in your heart. The bit of you that’s alive for no pre-determined reason. I know you can still listen to it, you just don’t do it very often. But you should, you know, there’s a voice there that’s loud and kind, and it’s the one that let me in. Sometimes you forget that you’re more than your name and title, don’t you, you can’t be the Saviour of Worlds at all hours of the day ! I promise it’s alright to just be you and put the sword down for a bit. You’ll always be able to pick it up again. And if you forget I’ll always be happy to tell you again and again and again until the concept has gone loud and clear through that thick skull of yours, and that day you can thank me, or perhaps I’ll thank you.”

_(does he say so ? or is it all in his head)_

But most of the time he says :

“You really must be easier on yourself, Mister Hero,” smiling only at a corner of his lips,

and kisses the palm of his hand. Those times Link feels himself soften irreparably.

Because living with Ravio is difficult

_(torturous on the best of days)_

and unfortunately rewarding. It makes leaving the house every morning the hardest task of the day, it makes waking up a harsh defeat, it makes breakfast all but impossible to eat – it makes him want to stay. Ravio is loving, kind and unburdened by responsibility, everything that Link has had to leave behind. Worse, the young man is the last standing to treat him entirely and completely like he treats everyone else, with nagging touches and terrible jokes and disarming honesty. Ravio sees right through the hundreds of honourable titles he and his predecessors have been given over the centuries, either because of deeply engrained wisdom, or because it’s beyond his comprehension, and has never regarded him as anything more than an equal. This is truly the hardest of behaviours to face. It brings out all the pieces of Link he doesn’t need, and mustn’t let get in his way : it brings out the best in him, the very best he can be.

He’s been stripped of a number of luxuries since the beginning of his awakening, ranging from lie-ins on sunny Sundays to harbouring a functioning moral compass, but the most painful one he’s had ripped away is the privilege of mirroring Ravio’s smiles. To give something back for all the care he receives is beyond him now,

_(or below him)_

out of his hands, they’re too full of other things, holy things, things of the utmost importance, things upon which his fate rests. He’s been learning to drop the others, the breakable things, the small things, the ordinary and the little and the trivial, the everyday, but Ravio makes it so much harder. Every time he forgets how to smile and feels he’s been freed of something new, he returns home and learns how again, against his better judgement.

There’s the temptation to let it all go. A small part of himself, one of the bits and pieces he’s shoved in boxes deep within, remembers his village life. In that small box the world is still basking in sunlight, and so is he, one amongst thousands, a speck trying to become a blacksmith like his uncle and carry on the family trade, _family,_ there’s love aplenty in that box. Every day it shakes a little harder, trying to break its lock. It’s never died entirely, no matter how harshly he’s smothered it and buried it and whacked at it with all he had. The part is not rational. Happiness rarely is.

But it’s such a small box and floating in such a massive ocean, deep and dark and unwavering. It does rust, you know, over time. One day it won’t open. And he’ll be left the way he is, unquestioning, dedicated to his task, detached to the point of dissociation, a figure more than a person, and then he’ll have peace. Because,

If he learns to love again how will he kill ?

If he learns right from wrong how will he serve the Goddesses ?

If he learns to be alive how will he accept to compromise the state, to be ready to give it up, to lay down his existence every day ?

If he learns to speak he’ll ask too many questions.

If he learns companionship he’ll feel terrifyingly alone.

If he learns empathy he’ll wonder why it’s been avoiding his path.

If he learns shame it’ll crush him. If it crushes him he’ll realise who forced it upon him.

If he learns to be again, the world will not be saved.

That’s how it ensnares you, you see, the Messiah Complex. It tiptoes when you’re not listening, and even if you do, it knows you ; it knows what you’ll hear, and what you choose not to hear. The tiniest thought blossoms into a grapevine that wraps around your conscience so tightly you can hardly think of anything else. When you finally get used to the total absence of reasoning, you can’t imagine you’ve ever lived any other way. On the mantel there’s a portrait of Link as a child, eleven, maybe twelve, with his arm around his aunt and his uncle’s hand on his shoulder. Ask him who that boy is – ask him if he recognises himself.

Ask him.

Ravio will never ask him, it’s just not wise. If he seems like a simple boy, it’s only because it’s the cover that he’s chosen, his protection. His insurance, if you will. He’s been thinking plenty. The boy has observed Link day in and day out, and carried him back home covered in blood and dirt. He won’t pretend to know every inch of him inside and out, but he knows plenty. Enough, in his opinion, and recently he’s been trying not to learn more. What’s going on inside Link’s head, of the lack thereof, the dreadful vacuum that the young man lives with, he wants no look into it.

Watching Hyrule’s hero come back home with cuts deep enough to scrap the bone and knees grazed to the flesh reminds him each day of the silver bullet he has dodged. His inadequacy had led him to exile, and a great deal of shame had been cast upon him, some of it public, some of it sly and slithering from within. The eyes that followed Link down the street furtively, hiding behind a tree, a curtain, those eyes had followed him too. Not so long ago he’d be hailed the same way. But it had been terrifying, that responsibility – further yet, that _demand_ that he carry salvation on his back alone. He who had risen through the ranks with words of advice and the fair use of knowledge had been asked to leave it all behind and become someone knew. He hadn’t grasped the extent of it, at the time, not entirely, but now he sees it very well : someone blank, someone loyal to the point of denial, someone who isn’t someone at all.

Yes, he had come here because he’d felt himself so full of guilt he might as well drown in it. In a sense, he knows that Link has had to ascend because he couldn’t, and he thinks about it every time the Saviour comes home missing a fingernail and a couple of teeth. Each time there’s less pain on his face when the bandages are tightened or the wound cauterised. He’s less and less aware of what makes him human, far too occupied with matters of spirituality. It’s all beyond Ravio, and he’s glad, so glad. The guilt hasn’t faded, though; he doubts it ever will. When there’s no more of Link left and only the Hero remains

_(it’ll happen one day, he knows, there’ll be a knock on the door and behind it there’ll be no one to greet)_

he might stop feeling guilty and mourn instead. But the self-blame, it’s not what he struggles to deal with the most. If causing the boy’s downfall in a futile attempt to save himself had not been enough, he’s gone and found himself loving him with fierce intensity, and that is by far the stupidest thing he has done. It’s beyond his control, really, it was as soon as he saw him lying there in that church, his round face contorted by a grimace of pain, a small drop of blood running the course of his forehead. Back then Link had been so full of emotion on every front; he’d been so cross at him for his trespassing, so stubborn, finally giving in with the gentle smile of a friend, and that had been good. That had been lovely, the best thing Ravio had ever come across. Link was someone who was brimming with love, for the community, for his kingdom, and for everyone who asked for his help. In Ravio’s heart that is what being the hero is all about, in the end, the capacity to open to others without a second’s doubt, but it’s festered in Link’s head. The young man’s skull is stuffed full of prophecies and verses and legends and words of God. It’s all rotten and decomposed and left him standing absent, incapable of putting things into any perspective other than the one fed to him. An avatar for holiness to step into.

Link is convinced he’s the Messiah, and you know, Ravio doesn’t blame him. It’s what he’s been told by the highest of powers, what else is a boy supposed to believe ? All children believe they’re destined for greatness – few get to walk the path. In Ravio’s case word had not come, and that silence had saved him. Who’s to say if he would have been able to fight it ? If Link, whose heart was so gentle and brash, had not, he doesn’t see how he possibly could have. It would have gotten him too, he thinks, and little by little watches his friend vanish from his side.

It’s incredible to witness the strength of the poor boy’s spirit. Every time Ravio thinks, this is it, when he comes back tonight there’ll be nothing behind his eyes, Link returns. The sparks of him that show up occasionally, when Ravio does something good, something that makes him almost smile, they’re probably not intentional. It would be easier to believe that they are, but Ravio thinks that the extent of Link’s love for life is beyond his control. It’s a loophole that hasn’t been tied, and a way in he doesn’t feel guilty for forcing wide open. He’s left the fate of his world to Link – to help him hold on is the least he should be doing. The hero never looks very grateful. The boy beneath sometimes cries.

“Welcome home, Mister Hero,” he greets him every evening, and coming from him the title always sound like more of a poke than a hail. If Link had blushed at it at first all he does now is nod curtly, but sometimes, when Ravio steps close enough and holds his hands and sounds delighted to have him back, his eyes shimmer in the candlelight.

When Ravio sets the day’s special dish on the table Link’s stomach starts to grumble, the ultimate sign of involuntary vulnerability, and when it does his gaze shifts. What is that ? Embarrassment ? The glint of emotion on his face is so pure that it feels like a victory in itself. He’s gaining ground ! It’s slow work, but by god, it’s worth it.

“Come here, then,” he tells him gently when he returns with his clothes soaked in blood, face pale and gaunt. If he’s somehow made himself immune to pain _(feeling above it, perhaps)_ he can’t deny his body’s limitations, and more than once he’s fainted right on the doorstep. The only reason Ravio can catch him is because he’s so very light. Those times it’s clear he should have come home hours ago, and Ravio admonishes him softly, lying his head in his lap and stroking the hair that’s stuck to his forehead. But his favourite days are those when Link comes to sit on his stool without being asked, and extends his bruised arm. Force of habit. Ravio always holds his hand when he cleans his wounds, and recently, Link’s been curling his fingers around his wrist, reaching by himself. More than once he’d felt his breath caught in his throat, and Link had smiled. Thus his companion had sunk a little deeper yet.

And then came the day when Link wept.

What a terrible thing to say, but the sight had been beautiful. It could be argued that the sight of Link always is, but it’s the emotion that gets him, the raw energy he’d put into it. At the table they both sit, and Ravio is prattling on about something or another, as he is known to do, because the silence is unbearable and hey – if he chooses the right words he might get something back, a waver, a blink, he’ll settle for a shrug ! On he talks about this and that, and the young girls in the village that had brought them fresh-baked bread and a slab of salted butter, which he’s keeping for breakfast tomorrow

_(a little something to look forward to)_

and from the other side of the wooden table there comes a loud clatter. He looks up from his plate, a hand holding his hood in place, and Link’s fork has bounced onto the floor, where it lies forlorn. The boy’s got both his hands covering his face and his shoulders are shaking hard, hard enough to cause one of his elbows to slip and narrowly miss his glass. In that moment his face is uncovered and Ravio looks into the picture of misery, red-nosed, cheeks flushed, eyes brimming with tears. His nose is similarly leaking, and he tries to wipe it on his sleeve, but it’s all overwhelming, the noises he’s making, sighs and chokes. He glances up and catches Ravio looking, but instead of attempting to hide he raises his hand, palm facing down, to his chest and pushes it downwards. What’s that the sign for, again ? Link has stopped signing as of late, and for a moment Ravio’s scared he’s forgotten, but no, it’s still there. _Tired,_ he’s signed. Just from the exhaustion spilling out of his eyes, the meaning’s clear :

_“I’m so tired.”_

“Of course you are,” Ravio breathes, and goes over to him. In the warmth of his arms the young man sobs harder, burying his face into his friend’s shoulder, and because it’s safe

_(and because it’s needed)_

Ravio pushes his hood back and kisses the top of his head. “Of course you’re tired. It’s too much.” It would be too much for anyone to carry this long. Link may be strong, and destined for holy conquest, but he’s only human. Humans break, it’s routine, they’re built for it. The fact he can still do so is a hopeful one.

That night he holds him until he’s asleep, and after that, until the sun rises and blinds them. He’s forgotten to close the curtains. Well, he can’t fight on every front, can he ? The light doesn’t bother Link, and the young man sleeps on, looking peaceful for the first time in half a year, maybe more. The tip of his nose is bright red. When he starts to wake up his instincts kick in and he buries his face into his pillow, shielding himself from sunlight and from view in one strategic move. Ravio has breakfast ready for him by the time he drags himself into a chair, and he doesn’t look like he’s going to make for the door, but if he does he’ll find it locked. Call it a loving precaution.

Ravio feels like they’ve made a huge step, and once the relief has hit him and tide has gone out, he finds himself on edge to the point of biting off his fingernails and scraping cutlery against porcelain. How long is it going to last ? He’s half expecting the glint of life in Link’s eyes to be swallowed, any moment now, but he just sits there, staring at his plate, perplexed. His companion realises with quite the jolt what this is all about, and what they’re about to have, right here, at the same table he’s talked and talked at to fill the astounding silence of his rapidly degrading host :

A talk.

There’s a lot on his mind. He too has his own storage system, where he keeps all the thoughts that occur to him in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Over the months he’s watched over his friend he’s come to amass a number of statements and feelings he’s thought it wise to keep to himself, some of them happy, some of them furious. The number of times he’s cleaned a nasty, horrific burn on Link’s forearm or upper back, a wound he would never have acknowledged without harassment, and has had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying :

“There are other ways than this ! I came to find them and I hoped you would guide me, but I’m still in the dark. I can’t tell you how, and I can’t tell you it’ll be easy, but I can tell you I’ll help every step of the way. I’ll give you everything that I’ve got. Traditions are meant to be questioned, they always change, centuries ago things were so different from now that you’d think you were in another world – what are heroics worth if they don’t come from within ? We can do without the voices in your ears, they’re not interested in the prevailing of humanity, only their _own,_ that’s why I left, Link, because the Goddesses are examples to us all and they’ve made us so selfish. The two of us, we could do something of our own. Something _right._ Do you remember when that word wasn’t an excuse ? I can’t watch you come back in pieces every day, convinced that you’re more than this, or that your death will be _meaningful_ – they’ll just find someone else. And I don’t wish this on anyone. So wake up. Wake up now !”

is so high that he’s lost count. Instead, without fail, he smiles only at a corner of his lips and says :

“You really must be easier on yourself, Mister Hero.”

It’s finally time for him to say his piece. But first he must listen to what Link has to say, and listen carefully he does. “ _I have a duty to fulfil,”_ he starts, and begins unwrapping layer upon layer of spiritual bondage. And all while he talks, Ravio can’t stop his first confession from echoing in his mind.

_“The voices in my head, they just won’t stop.”_

They talk until the sun starts to set. By the time they’re done they’re exhausted by aching backs and stiff necks, bones pop when they sit up. Link stares at his hands in his lap, debating on whether or not to raise them again. His fingers hurt, and so do his wrists. He hasn’t had so much to say in a very long time.

 _“I’m not the Messiah,”_ he’d unpacked last, hot tears burning in his eyes. _“Just another soldier. The last in a generation of sacrifices. No one can carry that much without a purpose, so they forced me into one, and crammed me full of lies.”_

Ravio had remained silent across the table. One of his hands laid palm up, open, a welcoming invitation. That had nearly hushed Link entirely, and left him all but poor for words, but he’d pushed on, because he’d felt his heart ache for the first time in months. A proper ache. An ache that caused him a moment of anguish. A sign he was on the right path.

 _“They have no faith in us,”_ he’d signed with increasing speed, chasing after his point lest it escape him. _“They don’t believe in our decency or prowess. I will fight for my kingdom because I want it to be a place where no one has to feel fear, and because I can. I don’t need to be a God to do that. I don’t – I don’t want to be the chosen Champion, or a holy warrior. I want to fight for what comes after. Not for the thrill. I want to live for more than that.”_

Ravio had sniffled under his hood, and withdrawn his hand to wipe his nose. Link was sorry to see it go, and had hung his head. It felt lighter. That had led them to where they are now, reviving joints that had been rusting. Link stands and picks up his sword. Dutifully Ravio unlocks the door.

“ _I’m late,”_ he signs, nodding at the setting sun. Head tilted upward, eyes taking in the cloudy sky and its fiery tones, he smiles at last. _“There’s work to do. See you later.”_

Ravio waves him off and thinks, I hope I do. I hope I see you later, Link.

He does. When he wakes in the early morning Link is dozing off at the table, snoring lightly over a bowl of oats. Ravio throws a blanket over his shoulders and when he turns towards the door, he finds the Master Sword untainted by the smallest of stains.

“You found it,” he whispers in the young man’s ear, and gives his cheek a reverent kiss. “You found your own way.”

And for a while, things are wonderful.

Wonderful does not mean perfect. Link’s headaches don’t disappear, and the words whispered into his ears come louder and more often. In a sense his real fight begins now, nearly a year after he first picked up his sword, and he’s acutely aware that it’s going to be far more dangerous. He’s walking a very thin tightrope, weighed down on all sides. So he takes it slow.

What had made living with Ravio a burden becomes a blessing that helps to keep him well grounded. Locking things up in boxes has grown out of fashion and become toxic in a manner of ways; these days Link is more into pouring out the contents and picking through it for signs of improvement. Ravio sits with him every night and listens to him unpack his day, the good and the bad, the fantastic and the terrible. Sometimes his head is so full he can hardly hear his thoughts, much less formulate them, and those days Ravio talks instead, and cuts through the prophetic lies one by one. It works – he starts to feel his body again, as a living, breathing thing, and a marvellous ally. How had he forgotten the sound of his own beating heart ? The warmth on the tip of his fingers ? The aches, they come back too, and the sting of burns and cuts and bruises, so he returns home with less of them. It’s forcing him to become clever again, to prove merciful and careful at once, and his journey loses speed, but what’s the rush ? The kingdom doesn’t have to be saved at the price of his humanity. When he’s done, and Yuga is no more, he’ll stand on top of the tallest of hills and look at it all for hours. He’ll look at the village, the forest, the mountains far away, the lakes and everything in between, and he’ll feel something. That’s his dearest wish.

Ravio makes it a habit to check his blade on the doorstep. When Link has a miserable day, a relapse, or just no other choice, he never makes a scene about the bloodstains, but when the sword comes back clean, well, that’s another story. The joy he’s brimming with to the point of outburst comforts Link on his way. He’s smiling more and more, and it’s an incomparable feeling. Every night making his way home is less of an inconvenience, more of a privilege. As soon as their little cottage comes into sight over the hill, surrounded by the greenery he’s finally been attending to, the weight on his shoulders alleviates. By the time he makes it to the door he’s ready to beam and sign :

_“I’m home.”_

“Welcome home, Link !” Ravio greets him, stepping aside to let him in. He’s dropped the nickname as of late – it’s helped. “Ha ! Hold on right there ! Boots off before you tread mud all over my beautiful carpet.”

Accepting the semblance of normalcy the teasing brings forth, Link treats him to an easy smile and steps out of his boots. Inside their little home there’s nothing bad to prepare for : off come the shield, gloves, protective gear and heavy belt. He leaves it all on the doorstep and removes his sword last, handing it to Ravio without much of a second thought. Creature of habit that he is, he leaves it with him for the routine inspection and pulls up a chair at the table on auto-pilot, the good kind, the one that’s dictated by hunger, tiredness and gladness to have returned. There’s already soup on the table, tiny trails of basil decorating the surface, and a spoon at the ready, because Ravio is always waiting for him and always prepared.

There’s much he’s eager to talk about tonight, because he’s had his best day yet. Last night he had tossed and turned in a haze of nausea, sweating out of every pore, moaning silently into the dark, and when he’d woken up he’d felt incredibly light. The word he’s preparing to sign is _cleansed_ , cleansed of intrusion quite completely, for indeed, he hasn’t heard a single word echo in his head all day. His palms touching, top hand brushing forward : cleansed.

But Ravio isn’t coming. He’s just standing there instead, and although the blade in his hand is perfectly shined and untainted, there’s no sign of a smile on his face. His eyes bear into the metal like he might find something long-lost in it. Link watches his ears twitch with wide, curious eyes, and is about to reach out to him when he understands.

“I can lift it,” Ravio says quietly.

Yes, he can. The sword of legend’s handle, that can be wielded only by the chosen hero, sits snuggly in his hand. Tales diverge and go off on brutal tangents before re-joining again, but they all prophesize the same thing : punishment, endless, painful and vile, upon anyone else who dared touch it. There are no blisters on Ravio’s hand, nor cuts or brands, not the smallest sign of harm. He’s gone very pale, but Link thinks that’s for another reason entirely. Realisation can be

_(draining)_

a shock. He gets out of his chair and goes to him, intending to place a hand on his shoulder, but his attempt is slapped away in the blink of an eye. Still Ravio stares, head bowed, and all the while the gears turn in Link’s head. There’s only one option, really, only one logical explanation, and Ravio lets him hook a finger under his purple hood and pull it back. Link takes an instinctive step back, not because the face he’s looking into is practically his own, but because its eyes are blank and as deep as the bottom of a well. And when he leans in, an inch or two, he can almost hear the whispers.

 _“Hey,”_ he signs urgently, but Ravio’s not looking. He tries to grab his arm, the one that’s free, but the young man’s hand wraps around his wrist and tugs harshly instead, sending him stumbling forward. His newfound strength leads Link right to the ground, where he lies on his back and looks up at his friend. Terror grips his guts and weeds its way into his lungs, choking him momentarily, because he’s watching his own past, and his own awakening. From an exterior point of view, it’s a horrifying sight.

Had it been so quick for him ? He doesn’t remember much of the feeling, having the warmth sucked out of him little by little to fill him with more useful things. Ravio’s struggling, making it worse – fighting it always hurts, he knows from experience. His eyes are spilling tears but there’s nothing on his face, not a trace of fear. His body might as well be moving on its own as he grips the sword and tilts the blade downwards. He’s standing above Link, holding the edge a few inches from his chest. Regaining control of himself Ravio opens his mouth and closes it again, biting down a gentle moan. There's no sign of enlightenment on his face, not a smudge of godliness. He's hearing different words, different coaxes, ones that force you to give in. Those voices had given Link divinity - now, they give Ravio rage. His hands shake around the sword, taking the blade much closer to Link than comfortable. He holds his breath. The tears are still coming. Link decides that as long as they do, there’s hope.

And if there’s hope, then he had better seize it while there’s still time.

“I ought to do it,” he mutters, the words overlapping, eating at each other in desperation. There’s a red-hot glint in his eye that suggests that it’s gotten him too, it’s started its work of weaving itself around him, the Messiah Complex – his jaw clenches and his mouth opens in an ugly snarl. “One swing would be enough.”

The blade is looming dangerously close to Link’s face, and he more than anyone knows how sharp it truly is, but strangely, he’s not scared any longer. Something very gentle has taken him over. Looking straight into the young man’s eyes, he realises it’s the silence. _“Why ?”_

Ravio’s teeth chatter. “Duty,” he says robotically. “D– D– D– Duty. I have a duty to f-fuh, fulfil.”

 _“To whom ?”_ Link asks next. It’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s gazing into his own face, and addressing his own beliefs. What’s easier than convincing yourself ?

“My kingdom.” Ravio pauses to swallow, and stop his bottom lip from trembling. “The sword accepted me. I’m the chosen after all – I really didn’t, really didn’t think I was, but I’m the chosen after all. I have to protect my kingdom. Obey the Gods. I have to b– bring peace to Lorule.” He lets out a whimper and shakes his head, like a man whose ears are too full. “I’m the new Hero, the Champion, the –“

 _“Saviour of the worlds.”_ Link smiles. _“Why did you come here, Saviour ?”_

Ravio’s frown steepens, digging a wrinkle into his forehead. “To – t-t-to –“ He struggles with speech, shaking his head violently from left to right. When he answers, his voice is louder, like he’s talking over something. He is. A sea of whispers. “To find the Hero of Hyrule. To aid him a– and stop him getting kuh – k-killed. To stop Princess Hilda’s plans… _Yuga_ ’s plans… to steal –“

He stops mid-sentence, mouth slack, teeth gleaming in the light. He’s lost it, hasn’t he, his train of thought. It’s been ripped from his grasp.

 _“So do it,”_ Link signs simply, looking straight into his eyes. _“Let’s defeat him together.”_

“No !” the young man hisses, leaning further down. The tip of the blade has slid to Link’s neck, on which it’s resting. He can feel the coldness of it, and the pressure on his skin. “That’s not my role anymore ! I’ve got a duty to the Goddesses to fulfil, I’m the p-preacher of their wishes…! Their will is to have you – have you…”

The gods work in mysterious ways, Link had been taught, as a little boy. He remembers that day clearly now, in the midst of this scene. His uncle had sat him in his lap and had opened one of the picture books they kept around the cottage, and this one told the story of the three Goddesses of the kingdom of Hyrule. It used to be Link’s favourite, and so he’d try to poke holes into it, and know more, but his uncle had always answered the same : the gods work in mysterious ways. He’d been an optimistic, smiling man, loving to his family and neighbours. He’d taught Link kindness, compassion and consideration, but he couldn’t have guessed that the powers above considered those values secondary. The gods don’t work in mysterious ways at all : they work to their own advantage, every step of the way.

 _“Let’s say you kill me. Let’s say you do, and that’s that – the Triforce is stolen and returned to your kingdom. It’s ruled by a tyrant puppeteer, and Hyrule is left in ruins. Think about it hard, Ravio, please. It_ is _about morality. It_ is _about right and wrong. Those things are important to you. Remember.”_

Three voices are whispering urgently into Ravio’s ear, finding contradiction upon contradiction to oppose Link’s words, and they’re good, he knows they are, they’d done quite the job on him. But Ravio today is ahead of him, far ahead, because he’s already here. It’s easy enough to get someone standing still to follow your path, but it’s harder to change the course of someone who’s been running for some time.

_“You’re here right now because you found another way. You found your own path to accomplish the hero’s role. You chose it because it’s right, even if it’s hard, and sometimes dirty, and always terrifying. Look at me, damn it, and remember that !”_

“ _There are”_ too many different words being thrown at him, all of them spoken at once and contradictory in every way. He can’t make sense of any of it, not _honourresponsibilitydutydeityprophecyobedienceascension_ any of it. The only words that make it through are Link’s, signed beneath him with frantic accuracy, searing through everything else. He does remember all the

 _“other ways”_ he’s learned to live and do good – who needs a title to earn the right to do what’s right ? His convictions have led him far, far away from home, on a path of betrayal to avoid a tragedy or worse, a genocide. They’ve led him into the house of a boy who was unravelling and they’ve led him to put him back together, piece by piece. Those words, they’re his, the ones he’d breathed and sighed and cried to help shake him awake : there are other ways

_“than this.”_

He drops the sword.

It clatters to the ground, splintering one of the floorboards into two pieces. He doesn’t hear the crash, nor the crack, too busy listening into the silence. He stays that way for a long moment, maybe five minutes, maybe two hours, making sure his thoughts are his again. He feels empty, drained from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, and it’s good. His lungs crackle to live, and hearing himself, splutter, that’s better yet. He wipes his eyes absently and looks down at Link, still lying there, with a thin red cut on his throat and a grin bright enough to light up the world.

“Are you alright ?” he asks him in a whisper. He feels weak all of a sudden, and accepts the grasp of Link’s outstretched arms with relief. “You... you found another way again.”

“ _You found it first,”_ Link smiles. His heart is thumping hard against his ribcage. That was a brutal scene, a sudden one, too close for comfort. He looks at the sword lying besides him and wonders where he’ll decide to lose it.

“You lived with that,” Ravio mutters into his tunic after a little while. His eyes have shut, eyelashes still wet. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out shakier. “I don’t – it’s not –“

_“After a while you learn to ignore it. And that’s how they get you, once you’ve stopped thinking to protect yourself it’s easy. You believe them because it’s the only thing that brings comfort, and everything else stops existing.”_

He tells him this with the utmost certainty, because it's the wrong time to say he'd believed freely at first. That he'd embraced it before the first hardship, wholly and certainly, because it was a wonderful thing, to feel so special. That there'd been a fire before the oil had been thrown onto it, that it had spiralled out of control, fanatically, that he'd lost his free will and his ability to question, but that he'd loved it, that day he pulled the sword out of the pedestal. The sun had been shining. He'll never forget it. But Ravio doesn't need to know that, not now. 

Ravio doesn’t say anything. Link knows what he’s thinking : not that terror, never again, neither of us.

 _“No need.”_ He tightens his grip on his companion, gazing at the ceiling. His thoughts are elsewhere. _“We’ve got our own paths. And they’re not as straightforward, and guilt, it clings onto you when you have no excuses, but it’s worth it in the end. Finding your own way.”_

He’s found it, and he’ll end up further onwards, no matter how long it takes. Full of hate and passion, he’ll go forth.


End file.
